Chapter 19
nineteen
. . .
Jess
Blair picks me up in her matte black G Wagon, sipping a green juice that smells vaguely like lawn trimmings and witchcraft.
“You’re wearing real yoga clothes,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat.
“You’re not,” she replies, eyeing my ancient USC baseball tee, tied at the waist, and biker shorts that have seen better days. “Did you bring a mat?”
“I brought an attitude,” I say, tossing my bag in the back. “That should count.”
She laughs as she begins to drive. “I’m told we’re going to love Natalie. Stella swears she’s part life coach, part wellness witch, all abs.”
“High bar.”
“It’s a Monday morning yoga class in Silver Lake,” Blair says. “The bar is buried beneath a pile of emotional unavailability and oat milk foam.”
The drive is just the two of us, and it’s filled with gossip, laughter, and just enough complaining about men to officially check off the bonding portion of the day.
We spent most of the weekend at her and Wyatt’s house in Santa Monica, just the girls, lounging on the patio, sipping cocktails, and soaking in ocean air like it could cure everything.
I’d been the one to suggest it, not because I needed a social night, but because I really didn’t want to be alone in Lucas’s apartment. Or my own.
Lucas left on Friday for La Jolla to celebrate Manmorial Weekend. The infamous “attached men only” beach trip Wyatt and Jake started back in their college days. I’ve heard all about it from Blair, but this is the first time that Lucas has been invited, the first time he’s technically counted.
He mentioned it casually and then suggested that I gather the girls together for our own weekend of fun activities. Fake husbands aren’t supposed to be this thoughtful. It messes with the boundaries and makes the pretending feel a little too real.
We pull up to a sleek little studio storefront with a name that sounds like an indie perfume brand, and I spot Sophia waving through the glass, looking unfairly fresh-faced for someone who was drinking negronis with me until midnight.
Inside, Stella’s already set the mats out in perfect rows. The water bottles are labeled and aligned like she’s trying to win an Olympic gold medal in hosting.
She beams when she sees us.
“Ok, so this is Natalie,” she says, gesturing to the stunning brunette at the front of the room. “She’s a literal goddess and my new favorite person.”
Natalie turns toward us with a smile that’s warm, genuine, and somehow both calming and intimidating. She looks like she could talk you into a headstand or a major life change without raising her voice.
“Hi! I’m so excited you’re all here. I’ve heard amazing things,” she says, her voice smooth but not rehearsed.
“You’ve heard amazing things?” I ask, skeptical.
“I have! You must be Jess, the badass podcaster,” she says as she takes my hands in hers. “And you must be Blair, Stella’s boss.” She gives Blair a wink.
“We’ve already been introduced,” Sophia offers cheerfully, “but Jess is the one who just got married and is working with Dylan on the Real Power documentary.”
“Wait,” Natalie says, blinking. “You’re married to Lucas Carmichael?”
I slowly descend to my mat. “Depends. Do you have a strong opinion about PR execs with unnervingly symmetrical faces?”
Natalie laughs. “No, but I do have a strong opinion about your husband being hot.”
Blair hoots, and I groan. “You can keep that opinion,” I say. “I hear it enough on Instagram.”
Natalie shrugs, totally unbothered. “Married men are safe to thirst after. No stakes.”
I shoot her a look, smiling despite myself, but something twists in my stomach quick and subtle, like the snap of a rubber band. It’s stupid. She’s not wrong, and it’s not like I actually want to claim him. Still, the idea of anyone else thirsting after Lucas makes me feel off.
I brush it away, but the ping of possessiveness lingers longer than I want to admit.
Class begins with a flow that feels easy until I realize it’s just the warm-up. Half an hour in, I’m dripping sweat and attempting a twisted triangle pose that should be illegal in polite society.
Beside me, Blair mutters, “If I die here, delete my browser history.”
Sophia’s already in full zen mode, effortlessly following Natalie’s cues like she’s auditioning for a luxury wellness retreat commercial.
Stella, of course, looks like she belongs on the cover of the wellness retreat’s magazine.
When we hit savasana, she sighs contentedly and whispers, “Told you. Natalie is magic.”
After class, we file out slowly, our limbs loose and our spirits slightly higher. Natalie joins us at the smoothie bar attached to the studio, and we gather around a tiny reclaimed-wood table, sipping things with spirulina and chia seeds like we understand what those are.
Blair’s phone lights up with a FaceTime from Wyatt, and she answers with a grin. “Hey, babe.”
He’s in the passenger seat, his hair wind-tousled from the drive. “Hey, gorgeous. Just left San Diego. We’re headed home.” He flashes her a crooked smile and then flips the camera around quickly. “Jake’s driving, Grant’s still nursing a hangover.”
“Not a hangover!” Grant shouts from somewhere offscreen. “Just deeply reflective.”
Sophia’s movie Survivor surpassed the $120 million mark this weekend, so I’m sure he was celebrating, and rightfully so. He bet big on a first-time producer in Sophia, and it paid off.
Wyatt laughs and turns the camera back to himself. “Can’t wait to see you tonight.” He blows her a kiss before the call ends, and all of us groan at the sweetness of it.
As Blair tucks her phone away, Natalie leans in with casual curiosity. “Ok, who was the hot guy driving with the movie star hairline?”
Blair chuckles. “Jake. Wyatt’s best friend. And also married.”
Natalie nods appreciatively. “Even better. I can add him to my no-stakes lusting scrapbook. Lucas.” She points at me with a wink. “Harry Styles, that hot priest on TikTok, and now Jake.”
We all laugh as we take a shot of what I’m sure is grass plucked from the patch of lawn in front of the studio. It’s disgusting.
Stella nudges me with her elbow. “Hey, has Brandon posted anything lately? He said he was going to Cabo for a few days, but I haven’t seen any stories.”
“Cabo?” I ask, surprised. “He didn’t say anything to me.”
She shrugs, too casually. “He was bummed that he didn’t get an invite to the guys’ weekend. So, that’s usually where he goes when he wants to reset. Or, you know, ruin someone’s faith in dating apps.”
“Concerned?”
“No!” she says a little too quickly. “I just wish I were as fluent in dating as he is. That man could give a masterclass.”
I look at her sideways. “You do realize he once ghosted someone because they said they liked musicals, right?”
“I mean, I get it,” Stella says. “Some people are too into Wicked.”
Natalie arches a brow. “Wait. Who’s Brandon?”
“Friend of ours,” Blair says. “Stuntman. Gorgeous. Unavailable. A walking cautionary tale, basically.”
“Stella and Jess’s neighbor,” Sophia adds with a knowing smile.
“Ah, I think I remember you mentioning him before. The neighbor.” Natalie leans back toward me. “So, you and your husband. How long were you together before you got married?”
The table goes quiet. I keep my tone light. “We’ve known each other for years. Worked closely together on many things. One day, we decided to go all in.”
It’s not a lie. It’s just not the whole truth.
Natalie nods, seemingly satisfied. “He seems like the kind of guy who’d do anything for his people.”
My chest tightens for a second. “Yeah,” I say. “He really is.”
We talk and sip until we’ve turned into the table that’s too loud, too happy, and a little bit obnoxious, the kind that makes you want to join or run screaming, depending on your current therapy status.
When we finally say our goodbyes, Natalie hugs each of us and says, “Next week, I’m teaching candlelit yoga on the roof. You’re all coming.”
It’s not a question.
Back in the car, Blair plays DJ while I scroll through texts, and my heart stutters when I see the one from Lucas.
LUCAS
Home. No rush, just wanted you to know.
LUCAS
PS: I left something for you on the kitchen island.
Curiosity hums through me the whole ride back. When I step into the house, the space is quiet and warm. Sunlight spills across the kitchen floor in soft gold streaks, like the house is exhaling after a long weekend.
Lucas appears from the hallway at the same time I drop my bag, his hair still damp like he’s just showered.
He’s barefoot and in a faded tee and well-worn shorts that hit just above the knee, showing off his thick athletic thighs and tan skin.
It’s entirely too distracting. He looks casual and comfortable, like someone I want to come home to.
It’s ridiculous. He was only gone three nights, but at the sight of him now, standing there with that easy grin, something loosens in my chest.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and warm.
“Hey,” I reply, trying not to sound as breathless as I feel. “Did you win at whatever Manmorial competition you were dragged into?”
“Cornhole champ,” he says smugly. “Not to brag, but Jake cried.”
I laugh as I walk to the island. “Please tell me there’s video.”
He laughs, and the sound hits low in my stomach, making it flutter and twist into a deep ache. I’m not sure when I started liking the sound of his laugh, but I do. When I reach the island, I see it: a small package on the counter, wrapped in brown kraft paper and tied with a simple navy ribbon.
“What is this?”
“Open it,” he says casually, but I swear there’s a hint of excitement in his eyes.
I pause. Gifts aren’t really a thing in my world, not unless they’re corporate swag or half-hearted PR gestures.
I can’t remember the last time someone gave me something just because.
Part of me braces for a joke, a gag, something ridiculous that’ll make me roll my eyes, because, if it is real, if it’s thoughtful, I’m not sure what to do with that.
I tug the ribbon loose and slowly unwrap the paper.
Inside is a charm bracelet. There’s a microphone, a tiny, folded newspaper, and three round silver discs, each engraved with a word: “Voice,” “Vision,” “Power.” The last charm is a little scroll that reads: “OTRC – 3 YRS.”
My heart catches, the kind of stutter-step that steals your breath before you even realize you’ve lost it. I stare at it, completely still. He remembered. Not just the name of my podcast. Not just the anniversary. But the way I talk about it. What it means to me.
“Lucas…”
“I saw it when I was picking something up for Grant. The charms felt like you.”
I swallow hard. My eyes sting, and I have to look away for a second to regain my balance. Because this? This isn’t part of the deal. This is real. Personal. Disarming.
I run my fingers over the metal. “No one’s ever bought me something like this.”
He shrugs. “Well, I’m honored to be the first.”
I don’t know what to say. Which is rare.
There’s a beat of silence, warm, full, and charged. I feel it in my chest. In the space between us. In the way he’s looking at me like I matter. Like he sees through all the noise and still chooses to stand here anyway.
Before I can stop myself, I reach for him.
My arms wrap around his waist, and I press my face into his chest. The fabric is soft beneath my cheek.
He remembered. Something small, maybe, but it means everything.
Now I’m standing here, hugging the one man I’ve called my sworn enemy for years.
Somehow, he’s become the person I want to share things with.
His arms slide around me like they’ve been waiting for the invitation. One hand settles at the base of my spine, and the other slides smoothly up my back. Neither of us lets go. Not right away.
“You hungry?” he asks finally.
“Starving.”
“Good. I made us your favorite pasta to celebrate.”
“You cooked for me again?”
“Don’t look so surprised,” he deadpans. “Here, let me put that on you.”
I watch as he takes the bracelet from my hand and latches it around my wrist. His hand holds on to mine for a beat, and I look up at him, realizing there’s nothing fake happening here anymore.
He drops my hand and flashes his most charming smile. “Let’s go eat.”